The crowning glory of the film is Jeff Bridges. Sometimes too overbearing, Bridges has finally been given a big ol' role that suits his robustness, his charms and gifts. He physically transforms into the greasy, bloated Bad Blake: recklessly driving a '78 Suburban, chain smoking, swigging whiskey, limping on a crutch, fiddling with his guitar. His voice, so haggard and worn, is perfect too, and he gives the film's outstanding country numbers an emotional pull. It's one of the great performances and a joy to watch. Maggie Gyllenhaal, as a small paper reporter and Blake's romantic interest, is so expressive and likable that I forgot that she seemed miscast, too metropolitan and too young for the role (she's in her 40s in the novel). A surprising revelation is Colin Farrell (always good at playing a slime ball) who nails his part as Bad Blake's Nashville-glitzed one-time protégé. Tender Mercies's Robert Duvall shows up as Blake's salty bartender friend and offers up a little song (stay for its reprise in the closing credits).